


Bed & Breakfast (& Better Things)

by iceberry



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bed & Breakfast, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-07-25 20:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7546287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceberry/pseuds/iceberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a political scandal brewing in the room overlooking the garden. The Secret Service is scouting out the backyard before the wedding of two CIA operatives – that the president is attending. His father won’t stop nagging him about getting a boyfriend. The coffee is shit. And Robert’s got a nagging suspicion that the neighbor who’s been giving him vegetables in exchange for breakfast has more secrets than any rural farmer should.</p><p>Welcome to the Corner Inn, now under the new management of Robert Townsend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Betwixt & Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to lea (culpers on tumblr) for beta reading!!

Robert has been up and on his feet for 18 hours when he lays down to sleep. His bed seems to be the most inviting thing in the world at the moment, and he only pauses to take his shoes off because he doesn’t feel like scrubbing mud off of the duvet in the morning (there’s already enough laundry to do). He’s still wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, and he’s resigned himself to falling asleep in them – any comfort he’d get from changing isn’t worth the effort of getting up again. The entire bed, from the sheets to the box spring, are the exact same as the fairly upscale ones in the guest accommodations, something Robert hardly gave notice to when he first moved in, but something he is immensely thankful for now. He sinks into the mattress, the last resistance to sleep in his body quickly melting away when his head hits the pillow.

And then there is a knock at the front door.

Robert musters up the last of his strength, drags his wrist over to his face to squint at his watch. It’s almost impossible to make out the tiny hands in the dark, and is incredulous when he’s finally able to decipher that it’s just past 11. _Who the hell_ , he thinks, _is knocking at the door of a bed and breakfast that’s at least two miles down the road from the nearest home at this time of day?_ The thought that it’s a thief or a murderer or something similarly horrifying crosses his mind; but he quickly rules it out because it’s so far away from civilization that he can’t imagine a criminal desperate enough to try to find the place.

He physically _aches_ ¸ he’s exerted himself so much that day, but – _Mind over matter_ , he forces himself to think as he pulls himself back to a rough approximation of a standing position. The light from the foyer is just enough for him to make his way down the hall by. He left it on for the night even though there weren’t any guests expected till tomorrow – a decision he’s now kicking himself for, as it’s likely why whoever is at his door thought it was appropriate to knock.

He fumbles with the lock for a second, excruciatingly aware that whoever is outside can tell he’s struggling, awake enough to be acutely aware that the visitor can tell he can’t open it but too tired to actually get it to turn. After far more exertion than should’ve been needed to turn a lock, he opens the door, and Robert isn’t particularly sure _what_ he expected to see on his porch, but certainly not the man before him. He scrutinizes the visitor through bleary eyes. He’s not too tall, a little scrawny (a strange description for a grown man, but an accurate one), and he has a wool cap covering his head that Robert quite frankly thinks looks ridiculous, especially for a mild April night.

“Who are you?” Robert asks. Although he’s mildly surprised at his own rudeness (not even a hello?), he’s relieved that he’s too exhausted for enough change in intonation – he doesn’t come off as _completely_ rude, just emotionless and dead inside.

The man shifts uncomfortably, and lets out a small laugh before extending a hand, which Robert tentatively shakes. “Sorry for dropping by so late, but I saw your light on.”

Robert doesn’t respond, just tilts his head to the side a bit, trying to make sense of the figure in front of him. He’s wearing a leather jacket that looks just short of a century old, his jeans are beginning to fray at the knees, his boots are covered in mud. Beneath the dirt and scruff, the visitor seems restless and out of place – and not just because he’s on someone else’s property close to midnight.

“I’m Abraham Woodhull. Just Abe is fine,” he continues, brushing past the silence. Robert can’t quite tell if he just didn’t expect a response or if he would have interrupted and kept talking anyways, but he frowns a bit. This late on a Sunday night, even a hypothetical interruption is grounds for annoyance. “I live in the white house down the road, the area past the woods.” He awkwardly gestures to the line of trees that border the inn’s property, but doesn’t stop looking at Robert. There’s a clever intensity in his gaze that intrigues and infuriates Robert, because it seems like Abraham is very much aware of how absurd this situation is, and like he might even be enjoying it.

“Robert Townsend,” he finally says after a pause, words clipped and dispassionate. Giving his name to the stranger at his door feels like a concession in some kind of game that he didn’t even know he was playing. And against his better judgement (he chalks it off to sleep deprivation, nothing more) he keeps talking. “The new owner here. I purchased the inn about a month ago, and I just moved in last week.”

“Ah, good luck then. It seems like no one manages to hold onto this place for long.”

 _Is that a challenge? A threat?_ Robert opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off.

“I’ll see you around, Robert,” Abraham says with a smile that grates on Townsend’s already frayed nerves, and then he’s faded back into the dark night. He’s gone, leaving nothing but the sound of feet crunching on gravel in the distance. Robert’s mind doesn’t catch up with what’s just happened in the past 60 seconds until Abraham is already gone, and quite frankly, he’s too tired to try and sort it all out.

Townsend falls into bed with his clothes still on once again, and quietly hopes that the visitor was just a dream.

At least that would mean he’s already asleep.

()

The next morning, Robert’s phone alarm goes off at 5:00. Despite the early hour, he’s always been good at managing to drag himself out of bed. _Mind over matter_ , he thinks again, sore from exhaustion. Being able to work on very little sleep is a skill that’s proved useful – first in business school, and now in a job that literally _requires_ him to be up before anyone else in the building.

The sun is barely beginning to peak through the dark curtains in his room as he goes through his daily routine. He brushes his hair, pulls it back into a tidy braid. The button-down shirt he throws on is nicer than usual on account of the guests arriving today, but there’s no pomp and circumstance. It’s just another day at work.

The kitchen, tucked in a corner of the downstairs just across from his bedroom, is fairly large for an inn that only has 5 guest rooms, so he’s taken to eating his meals there. The dining room is… there’s nothing _wrong_ with it, per say. It’s just dripping with the same kind of excess opulence that permeates most of the property. The china was custom ordered to match the drapes, which were of course also made just for the inn. Of _course_ all of the utensils are real filigreed silver. Rivington always did have a taste for the extravagant. He sold the inn to Robert months ago, but evidence of his influence here is uncomfortably inescapable.

Robert is far more comfortable at the small wooden table tucked into the corner of the kitchen. He feels out of the way, unlikely to disturb or be disturbed. Sitting alone, he sips his coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. It’s pretty shitty.

It was purchased for cheap in bulk out of necessity after the company he’d hired to deliver produce decided that the rural location and gravel road leading to the inn justified raising the cost of delivery, throwing his budgeting off for the _entire_ month. He’s still annoyed weeks later, and mostly at himself for not noticing the contractual loophole before signing the papers. He can imagine the chastisements of his business school professors every time he thinks about it. _As if having to re-budget wasn’t punishment enough,_ he thinks indignantly.

He drinks the rest of the shitty coffee.

Days at the inn follow a fairly predictable order, barely changed by the arrival of his first guests. First there’s cleaning – dusting and sweeping and washing the dishes. _This_ , Robert thinks sarcastically to himself as he empties the dustpan, _is truly the romantic ideal of innkeeping_. The coffee shop he worked at his senior year of undergrad was full of those world-weary corporate types, who occasionally floated around how great it would be to leave their suits and cubicles behind and open an inn, somewhere quiet in the mountains or near the seaside. In less than two weeks of owning an inn himself, Robert has realized that not only did all of them have it completely wrong – running an inn by yourself is an _astounding_ amount of work – none of them would last a _week_ doing this.

The rest of the morning is spent behind the front desk, sorting through paperwork and bills. He’s granted a brief respite when his first guests check in (something he finds underwhelming). They’re a pair of honeymooners from D.C. The husband (a senator, Robert’s seen him on TV before) seems a little off somehow –  the descriptor _smarmy_ comes to mind as Robert leads them inside with their bags. The hand that’s not wrapped possessively around his new wife (who looks rather morose considering the occasion) is constantly reaching out to touch the décor; he seems far more interested in the gilded candelabrum next to the check-in desk than his bride. This fact becomes far more interesting when the credit card belonging to a “Benedict Arnold” is declined, and the woman with him sighs, then pulls out a black American Express card and hands it over with a tired smile. Robert tucks this interesting observation away.

After the brief interruption, Townsend’s day moves on at a brisk pace. More paperwork, then laundry, then a bit of yardwork. Back inside as the sun goes down for more cleaning, folding linens, wiping down the kitchen, and polishing the silverware for tomorrow’s breakfast.

He also starts the baking, because for the first time since he’s moved in he’ll need to make more than his own breakfast of shitty coffee. It’s as he’s methodically sifting flour into a bowl for biscuits, that he finally has time to reflect on what happened the night before. There _is_ a certain amount of surrealism in the memory and he allows himself to acknowledge the humor in the situation with a brief roll of his eyes. But largely, he just feels annoyed. The encroachment kept him from sleep and the stranger may or may not have implied he lacked the ability to keep the inn open (it wasn’t a _blatant_ insult, if that’s even what it was, it was just obnoxious). Most annoying of all, despite how much he _wishes_ he could just let it go, there’s a corner of his mind that keeps wandering back to the conversation. It was so bizarre, he can’t help wondering about Woodhull – a name that seems familiar, but he can’t pinpoint why, which certainly isn’t helping ease his nagging curiosity. Abraham did tell him where he lived, but Robert pushes that thought aside the moment visiting Woodhull occurs to him. Even if he _wanted_ to visit – which he certainly doesn’t, he’s not _that_ intrigued – there’s no time for it.

Robert’s been on his feet for 18 hours when he goes to bed, but tonight he finds it difficult to fall asleep even without any surprise visitors. He stares at his ceiling and wills his mind to focus on budgeting better and the chores for tomorrow and the menu for breakfast and buying new coffee, but his thoughts keep drifting back to that utterly _stupid_ wool cap and the infuriating smile of its wearer.

()

As the day-to-day running of the inn becomes more habitual, the days start to run together a bit. It feels like when he was little, and would lose track of the day of the week during summer, because for the whether it was a Monday or a Saturday didn’t actually make a difference. Instead of forgetting because of a lack of work, Robert hardly has a second to rest. Technically he’s given himself Sundays off, but he’s yet to take a day of rest. And going to a Meeting seems far from realistic given the distance and his chores, even though he’s sure his father would scold him for neglecting his faith.

The first guests leave, more filter in, pulled in by the novelty of the place. Some are in town visiting family – the grandmothers and aunts are always the ones who want to have friendly conversation (he has to stop himself from laughing sardonically when they ask if he has a wife). He gets a few others from D.C., low-level politicians who drive nice cars they probably shouldn’t be able to afford (who ever said corruption was dead?).

The two luxury cars parked in front of the bed and breakfast make the beat up Pontiac that’s parked next to them when Robert returns from the store look even worse than it is. When Robert pushes the back door open and turns into the kitchen, he’s not surprised to see his father seated at the table, cane in hand.

“Robert,” his father says warmly, as way of greeting.

“Father,” Robert responds, placing his grocery bags on the table and leaning forward to hug him. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, but you sound exhausted.” The tone of concern makes Robert feel guilty, because it _is_ his fault he hasn’t been calling his father enough. There’s an added layer of irony in that being closer to his father – after he fell and broke his hip, Philadelphia felt too far for Robert’s conscience and comfort – was the crux of why he bought the inn in the first place, which honestly just makes him feel worse now since the inn has been his main distraction.

“I’m fine,” he responds automatically. Admittedly, his guilt is due to his own failure in checking up on his father, not for not telling him all the details of his own life, which he’s sure his father would chastise him for. “How is your hip? When was the last time you talked to your doctor?”

 “It’s fine, just like we knew it was going to be from the beginning,” his father replies with fond exasperation; he shifts his weight and rubs his hip anyways, something that doesn’t escape Robert’s notice. “I’ll probably need the cane a little longer, but it’s healing up perfectly alright.”

“I hope you’ve been taking it easy,” Robert says as he takes the kettle off the stove (his father must have put it on) and carries it over to the table, with two mugs and two tea bags in his other hand. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to get away and help you around the house.”

His father waves off the suggestion. “If anything, you’re the one who needs help around here. Why you haven’t hired more help is beyond me.”

Robert wordlessly hands his father the mug, and sips, looking over the rim of his own cup with raised eyebrows. The answer to that is of course, he can’t afford it right now, even part-time workers are too much of an expense. _And I’m perfectly capable of getting work done when there aren’t any distractions_ , he thinks to himself, then immediately feels guilty. He would never say something like that to his father, and he isn’t unhappy that his father is visiting. There’s just _so much_ to do.

Putting the mug down, he grabs the grocery bag and leaves his father to his tea as he crosses the kitchen to put the eggs and milk in the fridge.

“You’ve been on your feet ever since you walked in the door,” his father points out, and Robert sighs, shuts the refrigerator door. “If you won’t hire someone to help you, I wish you would at least find a friend or two, someone to help you relax a little –“

“I don’t need –“

“Or have you met any nice men around here?” His father’s voice takes on a slightly lighter tone, and Robert has to summon every ounce of maturity in his body not to roll his eyes then and there.

“Rural Virginia,” he replies drily, “is not exactly known for its population of eligible young gay bachelors.” Robert grabs a soapy damp rag sitting in the sink (another box to check on his endless list of things that need to be cleaned) and begins to scrub down the counter, more aggressively than necessary. “I’m perfectly capable of running this place, I wouldn’t have bought it otherwise.”  

“I know you think you can, but I think you forget your own limitations sometimes.”

“I’m not having this argument right now,” Robert says, harsher than he meant it. “I’m fine,” he adds, softer. And that’s the end of that conversation.

()

Robert’s carefully balancing ten of Rivington’s custom-ordered porcelain plates as he makes his way through the dining room. He’s moving slowly as to not bump into any of the small round tables scattered throughout, but his eyes are constantly moving, cataloguing his jobs for the rest of the day. There’s a stain on the tablecloth near the window thanks to guests that arrived two days ago, napkins at four of the eight tables need to be washed when he does the laundry later. The antique ivory-inlaid checkerboard in the corner needs to be dusted. He can handle it.

He pushes the kitchen door open with his shoulder, and makes his way over to the sink. The guests have mostly dispersed by now, either back up to their rooms or out. Surveying the kitchen, Robert allows himself a brief moment to breath, as the kitchen is fairly tidy. The visitors spread out what time in the morning they came down to eat more than usual, which made it easier to clean up as he went along – but it’s still less work for him later. Of course, he doesn’t let himself spend _too_ long on pointless introspection, and he moves to start washing the dishes.

And then there is a knock at the back door.

Robert quickly grabs a towel and dries off his hands before leaving the room, leaving the porcelain to sit in a pool of warm soapy water. _Who would be at the back door?_ It’s not likely to be a guest, because the back door is actually kind of hard to find, especially compared to the front entryway – it’s on the far side of the house, and guarded by a large rhododendron bush. His father would just waltz in unannounced, so he can be safely ruled out too.

For a brief moment after he opens the door, all he sees is a large wooden crate. And then the man holding the crate tilts his head to see around it.

“Woodhull?”

“Can you give me a hand with this?”

The crate is shoved into Townsend’s arms before he has a chance to respond, and he stumbles backwards a few paces under the unexpected weight. Abraham matches him step for step moving forward, and grabs the other side and practically _manhandles_ the innkeeper (and crate) down the hall. The only reason they make it into the kitchen is because of Robert’s forcible navigation, and he still gets bruised on the door frame trying to walk into the room backwards with Abraham pushing forwards. Woodhull occasionally offers useless navigational advice, which Townsend entirely ignores (it’s _his_ inn, and he’s not certain Abraham can even see over the side of the crate, he’s so short). Once in the kitchen Robert lets go of his side of the box, and Woodhull lets his side slip. The crate crashes to the kitchen floor, and Abraham is leaning over a bit, hands on his knees and breathing heavy from exertion.

“Nice to see you again,” Robert says sarcastically, too annoyed and his arms too sore to even _play_ at being glad to see him. He peers into the crate, pointedly not showing outward concern for the man panting in front of him. The wooden box is about 2 feet tall by 3 feet wide, and absolutely _stuffed_ with vegetables, mostly cabbage and spinach. And they look _fresh_ – vibrant greens standing out brightly against the grey-brown wood.

“Why is this filled with vegetables?”

Woodhull (who’s caught his breath and straightened up by now) looks at Robert for a second, as if that question is strange. A moment passes, and something like understanding crosses his face, during which Robert notices that the hat is gone. (He’s not sure why he notes that, but he also notes that Abraham’s hair is longer than expected, and pulled back into a neat ponytail.)

“I forgot to mention it when I stopped by to introduce myself. I’m a farmer,” Abraham says, like that explains everything. It explains nearly nothing.

 “Are you trying to sell me vegetables?”

“No, of course not.” If the question catches Woodhull off guard, he doesn’t show it. “The guy I sell my stuff to couldn’t buy all of it, so I ended up with extra. I figured you’d be able to use more of it than me.”

The answer catches Robert a bit off guard, but his only reaction is a raised eyebrow. “It’s free?” he asks, voice heavy with suspicion.

 “Yep.” Abraham pauses, looks over like he knows something Robert doesn’t. “Consider it a peace offering to apologize for bothering you so late a few weeks ago.”

 _Apology not accepted_ is on the tip of Robert’s tongue, but he bites the sharp reply down. Yes, he’s still very annoyed about the other night, and right now certainly isn’t helping with the irritation factor. But even though Abraham’s intentions still seem a little strange and clouded, just from what he can see on top, it’s at _least_ $120 of produce, quite possibly more. Right now, the B &B is doing fine financially. But it would be an idiotic business move not to take what’s being offered, and Robert’s not an idiot.

“Well. Thank you,” Robert says, and he means it, as suspicious as he is. “Are you sure you don’t want anything for it?”

“There is one thing,” Abraham starts, halts and looks around the kitchen, eyes pausing briefly at the stove before he looks back at Robert. “Could you hard boil a few eggs for me? I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”

Once again, Robert’s caught off guard, but shrugs, and moves to fill a pot with water. It’s an easy request, and the guy did just give him a large crate of vegetables. “How many?”

“Six or seven?”

“That’s a lot of eggs.”

Woodhull shrugs. “If I can’t finish them, I’ll take them with me as a snack for later.” Robert raises his eyebrows again, but goes to pull a carton out of the fridge anyways. There’s exactly 6 left, which means another 30-minute drive to the store this afternoon to buy more, which means an entire hour taken away from doing stuff that actually matters, just for _eggs_. Rationally, he knows he’d have to go anyways – he’s been going through almost a dozen and a half each morning – but he still feels mildly annoyed at having to give _Woodhull_ , practically a stranger, the last of them.

Woodhull has seated himself at the wooden table across the kitchen, and Robert can practically _feel_ his eyes on him as he puts the pot on the stove and turns the heat up.

“How’s running this place going for you?”

 _Why are you acting like you know me?_ Robert wants to say. “It’s been fine.”

The brusque nature of his reply seems to go entirely over Abraham’s head. “That’s good – hey, I meant to ask, is just Rob okay?”

“I prefer Robert,” he replies, once again unsure of where Abraham is getting the sense that they’re friends. In all honesty, he doesn’t care _that_ much what people call him, it’s just a name, but the informality is grating. Just like the other night, there’s something about their back-and-forth that seems like a game, a sort of subtle sparring.

“Whatever you say, Robert,” Abraham says, and smiles. Robert does not.

Eggs getting close to boiling, he goes to grab two bowls, one of ice water and another empty.

“How’d you end up in this business?” Abraham asks. “You seem pretty young to be running a bed and breakfast.”

Robert’s back is to Abraham, but he glances over his shoulder while reaching into the cabinet. “I just got out of business school. I wanted to be in the area, and a former boss of mine was selling it,” he replies, moving over to the freezer to grab ice. There’s a lot of details left out; addendums he doesn’t dignify the question with. He’s _pretty_ sure that Woodhull won’t ask about any holes in the story, but he’s also certain that at the very least he’ll notice them. Woodhull is almost certainly smarter than he lets on, another observation Robert can tack onto his (rapidly growing) list of things he doesn’t understand about this man.

“Business school, huh?” Abe echoes, leans back in the chair, stretches out like he owns the damn kitchen. Pretending not to notice that his visitor has made himself very much at home, Robert busies himself with taking the eggs off the stove and dropping them into the bowl of ice water.

“I was in law school for a while myself,” Woodhull remarks casually. This time Robert does look back, out of genuine surprise. He tries to picture Abraham as a lawyer, and the concept of him in court with a suit is completely incongruous with the image in front of Robert. _What did his law professors think of his ponytail?_ he thinks amusedly, and turns away before Woodhull can see the small involuntary upturn in the corners of his mouth.

“How’d you end up in the farming business?” Robert responds drily after a moment of consideration. Abe smiles thinly. For such an innocuous question, it seems to hit a nerve.  

“It was my back-up plan, and law school wasn’t working for me,” Abe responds with a shrug, and it’s clearly some kind of lie. Even if it wasn’t so _laughably_ vague, it honestly just welcomes itself to more questions. Robert gets the impression that Woodhull is used to lying, and that he’s used to people falling for it. He’s not sure how exactly he can tell Abraham is lying; his performance is actually fairly impressive. Maybe there’s a lack of confidence in the eye contact, but everything else is convincing as can be – it seems like even Abraham believes what he’s saying. _Maybe he wouldn’t be such a bad lawyer after all_. Part of him wants to pry, but to be fair, he left a lot out of his story as well, so he lets it slip. His mind completes that remark with “for now,” and he nearly shakes his head trying to get the idea out.

“Here’s your eggs,” Robert says, placing the bowl in front of Abe, who seems a little less relaxed than before, like he was bracing himself for more questions about law school. He allows himself a brief moment of satisfaction for disarming the farmer – if they _are_ playing some kind of game, Robert’s gotten the upper hand for the first time, and if it’s immature to feel pleased with that, he comforts himself with the fact that pretty much _everything_ Abe has done in their two meetings has been far more so.

“Thanks.” Abe cracks one of the eggs on the side of the bowl, and Robert watches him haphazardly peel bits of shell off and toss them onto the table for a moment before turning back to the work at hand. The dishes won’t clean themselves, and he’s not going to stand around and watch someone eat breakfast when there’s work to do.

“What kind of people do you get staying here?”

Robert shrugs and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, plunges his hands into the soapy water that’s become cold while sitting there. “People visiting family. Honeymooners. Some politicians. The president,” he replies, sarcasm thick on the last part. Abraham actually _laughs_ a little at that, and Robert turns his eyes heavenward. He’s disinterested in this discussion and growing more preoccupied by the amount of work he needs to be doing by the moment. Abraham clearly enjoys hearing the sound of his own voice, and he’ll humor him for a bit longer because of the vegetables, but he doesn’t intend to let the farmer waste much more of his time.

“I guess the politicians are because we’re so close to D.C.,” Abe comments in-between bites of egg.

“Probably,” Robert agrees, but coldly, and he lets a clean dish clatter on the counter to punctuate the hint he’s giving.

It works. Abraham pushes his chair back, and when the innkeeper turns around at the noise, the bowl of eggs is empty save for some bits of shell. For a second he’s surprised, he hadn’t expected Woodhull to eat all of them – and then he notices that the pockets of the beaten-up leather jacket are bulging, and he has to restrain himself from an exasperated sigh.

“Thanks for the breakfast,” Abe says, moving towards the doorway. “I’ll see myself out.” Robert begins to raise a hand to wave goodbye, but splashes water on his shirt in the process. Abraham notices (Robert can tell from the look in his eyes), but doesn’t laugh or anything. He just smiles that same, infuriating smile he did the first time they met.

“See you around, Rob.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/N  
> one chapter in and this is already pretty the longest thing i’ve written, w o w. strap in bc this is going to be a wild ride. a few comments: the setting is virginia, about 45 minutes-an hour south-west of D.C. – i know this might seem like a random move from long island, but politics/US government things that happen in D.C. are going to become a little more relevant later on, and both of the inns the corner inn is based on are in virginia. sorry if that throws anyone off a little lol. also turn is filmed in virginia, which isn’t a real justification but makes for a nice excuse ;-)  
> robert’s religion is only barely relevant to this fic but it will be mentioned a few times – i’m not quaker myself so I’m just working off of research so if anyone has any corrections to make re: terminology etc PLEASE let me know.  
> the real townsend had 8 (!!!) siblings, and his mother lived to a fairly old age, but keeping in line with the show, his father is the only parent in the picture rn, but a sibling may be making an appearance later. rob and abe are both about 25 in this fic, and so are the rest of the ring (yes, they're coming).  
> the credit card peggy has is the amex centurion card, which is exclusive to the super-wealthy and has some fucking wild benefits. i spent a really long time looking up exclusive credit cards and like, rich people are crazy.  
> sorry for all these notes thank you for reading! any and all feedback loved and appreciated <3  
> next chapter: gardening sux, the more rob learns about abe the less he understands, john anderson makes an appearance, and samuel REALLY wants his son to be happy and well-adjusted (get a boyfriend).


	2. Being & Becoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abe continues to worm his way into Robert's life, the innkeeper facilitates political intrigue, and the inn receives a request for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again thanks to lea (culpers.tumblr.com) for beta reading!
> 
> content warn for brief mention of cheating.

Robert didn’t take out a $200,000 loan and buy an inn to “enjoy himself,” but that doesn’t mean there aren’t certain aspects of running it that he finds more pleasant than others.

Cooking, for example. He’s never trained or taken a class on it, but several of the many volumes covering his desk are cookbooks. He likes it because there’s steps, and clear instructions, and you always know what’s coming next. In baking, especially, there are rules and measurements and guidelines and that’s _exactly_ how he likes it. There’s something soothing in the methodical actions of measuring flour and baking soda; there’s a satisfaction in seeing bread rise that he’s never felt before. The inn is certainly not going to be winning any major culinary awards, but the plates Robert collects after breakfast are clean more often than not, and that’s as much of a seal of approval as he needs. There’s order in the process, and no need to step out of line.

Which is exactly why he hates the garden.

When he arrived two weeks before the first guests were booked, the B&B had been laying empty for nearly 5 months. The inside, for the most part, was no worse for wear, a thick layer of dust and some cobwebs in the corners the worst neglect had left on the place. The outside, however, was much worse off.

The garden had grown out of control in the fall from lack of care, then left to die in the snow, and had begun to regrow when he first walked out back to look over it. He can tell that at one point it was beautiful, can almost picture it in his mind – green vines dotted with morning glory blooms sweeping across the trellis, rosebushes flush with delicate pink lining the stone pathway across the yard. There’s a large oak tree with branches that at one time must have cast sun-dappled shadows across the flowerbeds near it, but time has taken its toll. The tree still stands there, but in disarray. Snow’s broken some of the branches off, where they lay in the empty flowerbeds. The large grass lawn stretching from the patio to the woods is overgrown in spots but yellowed and dry in others. The trellis is similarly awry, white paint chipping and splintering wood beginning to loosen up. It’s _chaos_.

It’s a little better than when he first arrived. Robert’s spent at least 45 minutes a day working in the garden since he got there. He knows that the inn is alright financially for now – it’s new, and guests will keep making reservations as long as it seems different and exciting. But that novelty isn’t going to last forever, and although he’s never planned on keeping the inn for too long, he still needs a contingency plan. When one of the books he bought on inn keeping (there are far more published than he expected) suggested hosting weddings, clearing out and replanting the back sounded doable.

Robert finds himself in the back of the inn, thorns catching on his sleeves as he pries more wild onions from the ground with a trowel. He _hates_ it. Baking requires enough concentration to provide some kind of relaxation, and even cleaning is fairly painless (if dull). But weeding and pruning is just mindless and thankless, and it feels like for every weed he pulls up, 10 more grow in its place, like the mythical hydra (but more boring). It’s the first week of May, and already the mid-afternoon humidity and heat are enough to make him sweat as he works, as if digging through dead plants and dirt wasn’t dirty enough. The flower beds near the tree are mostly cleared now. The fallen branches have been dragged into the woods, the rotting oak leaves raked away, the first seeds planted. The impatiens and marigolds should hopefully bloom by July, and he’s hoping that pruning will help the rosebushes follow. But it’s slow work.

Which is why the sound of footsteps coming around the corner of the building followed by the loud _thunk_ of something hitting the dirt _almost_ makes for a welcome distraction – the source of the noises is what makes him less than overjoyed.

“Hey, Rob,” Abe says, a little breathless from the exertion of carrying the box. Laying in the grass next to him is another crate, the same type as the one left in the inn’s kitchen last week. “I have something for you.”

Reluctantly and without returning the greeting, Robert pulls off his gloves, and walks over to the farmer. He peers into the box, and raises an eyebrow at the contents.

“Why so much cabbage?” Last time, there’d been a few heads, but it was balanced out pretty well by the amount of spinach. The spinach was easy to find a breakfast food for, quiche and in eggs florentine. This time, the box is nearly stuffed with cabbage, which he’d found harder to find a use for – there’s still a head sitting in the fridge. But on top are about a dozen tomatoes, some of them heirloom and all of them perfectly ripe.

“Not even a hello? A ‘thank you’?” Abe looks at Rob with a _hilariously_ unfunny (and overdramatic) look of hurt, which is met without reaction from Rob. Woodhull doesn’t seem happy that his theatrics are ignored, but he moves on. “It’s my main crop. It’s all I’d be growing, except last year there was some trouble with maggots, so I wanted to make sure I had backup.”

Robert’s lip curls a bit in disgust at the thought of maggots as he leans over to pick one of the tomatoes up. He turns it around in his hand, drops it back onto the pile of cabbage, mind already running through the possibilities for it. Abraham shifts his weight from one foot to another next to him, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket ( _Why is he still wearing that? It’s 75 degrees outside_ ) as if to keep them from fidgeting. He’s looking at Robert expectantly, like a little kid who wants to ask an adult something but wants acknowledgement first.

“What?”

“Any chance I could get breakfast again?”

“It’s 2 o’clock in the afternoon.”

“So? It’s the most important meal of the day.”

Robert openly rolls his eyes; he’s decided he doesn’t care if Woodhull thinks he’s rude or not, mostly because Woodhull clearly doesn’t care if Robert feels the same. Either way, it _is_ a simple request and he is getting good (and free) vegetables for it, so… whatever.

“Eggs?”

“Yeah.”

“How many?”

“How about… seven, or eight.”

“You didn’t even finish four last time,” Robert points out. “Do you eat anything _other_ than eggs?” Woodhull laughs a little and smiles, but doesn’t respond, which Robert takes as a ‘No.’ He gives the cabbage farmer a withering stare, then sighs. “Fine. I’ll be right back out.”

He half expects Woodhull to follow him up the patio steps and through the French doors to the dining room, and is relieved when he stays outside instead. Robert can half-see him from the window over the kitchen sink as he puts a pot on to boil, and after a moment’s consideration, brews a pot of coffee too. It’s probably too hot outside to be drinking hot coffee, but he could use the caffeine. He bought decent coffee for guests a few weeks ago, but is still drinking the shitty brew himself. It’s partially because he doesn’t want to waste any food, but he also suspects that it’s his subconscious still punishing him for messing up the budgeting. _Or I’m just a masochist_.

Robert walks back outside and looks for Abraham. He’s moved further into the yard, and is poking around the garden.

“How do you take your coffee?” Robert calls over.

“Lots of cream, a little sugar,” Abe calls back. Then, like an afterthought: “Thanks.” He sounds genuinely surprised that Robert is offering something more than the eggs he’s requested.

The pot is nearly boiling over when Robert gets back inside, and he gets it off the burners and the eggs into cold water just in time. While they cool down he fixes the coffee – cream and sugar for Abe, black for him. After a moment’s hesitation, he elects to put a spoonful of sugar in his mug as well. Maybe part of why he’s so irritable all the time is because of the coffee, and he’s not going to stop drinking it, but he supposes there’s nothing wrong with trying to mask the taste. He shoulders the door open, bowl tucked in the crook of his elbow and mugs in his hands.

Abe isn’t there.

“Woodhull?” The response is a clattering from the toolshed on the other side of the inn, and Abraham appears around the corner a moment later, holding a hoe in one hand and a tree trimmer dangling loosely in the other. “What are you doing in my toolshed?”

“You’re doing this all wrong.”

“What?”

Abraham walks over and gestures to the general area Robert had been weeding when he showed up. “You’re not getting all the roots out by pulling them like that, that’s why they keep growing back.”

“It’s none of your business,” Robert replies. Part of him considers that maybe arguing with a _farmer_ about how to grow plants is an exercise in futility, but the other part of him is just annoyed at the unsolicited advice.

“Don’t you want my help?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you assume I even want it in the first place,” Robert says, and places his own mug of coffee on the patio railing before shoving the bowl of eggs at Abraham. “Do you want these or not?”

Abe looks at him askew for a second, but drops the hoe and trimmers, and grabs the bowl from the innkeeper’s hands. He also reaches for the coffee, and Robert briefly considers dumping it over the railing into the flowerbed, but hands it over reluctantly.

“Leave them on the back doorstep when you’re done eating,” Robert says, and walks back to the kitchen. It’s not one of his more mature moves, and he can feel Woodhull’s eyes on the back of his neck, watching his retreat. He can’t disguise the flash of satisfaction that crosses his face when looking through the kitchen window, he spies Abraham sip the coffee and grimace.

Robert gets to work baking, drinking his coffee as he works. Seeing the bread rise and kneading it down is more satisfying than usual after the frustration of before, and for a while he’s able to put any and all thoughts of Abe out of his mind. But when the sun slants through the curtains in the dining room as he vacuums, he’s reminded of the bowl and mug outside, as well as the vegetables that he needs to bring in before the dew forms on them and runs the risk of them rotting.

He almost steps on the bowl, which defies his low expectations of Abraham by actually being where he asked him to leave it. Next to it is the mug, and the crate of vegetables.

He walks around the corner of the building to put away the hoe and tree trimmer that he’s sure Abraham left out. Robert _wants_ to be surprised that not only are they back in the shed, the patch of soil he’d been arduously weeding has been completely turned over.

He tries to convince himself that Woodhull did it just to spite him for not wanting his help.

He _almost_ believes it.

()

It’s mid-morning on a Tuesday and there’s only one reservation scheduled to check in today. Besides the room the new arrival will be taking (the back corner upstairs), only one other room is full, the lone downstairs room near the dining room. It’s quiet. In the past week, the reservations have begun slowing down, maybe 2 or 3 calls a day maximum, compared to the average of 5 or more he’d been getting before. He tries not to worry, and for the most part there’s still so much to do that he doesn’t have time to overthink it. But he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t constantly in the back of his mind.

Even right now, seated at the front desk with papers all over it. _The monthly chore of budgeting begins anew_ , he thinks, then begins flipping through last month’s bills. Most of them are going to remain the same through May – the air conditioning one might go up since it’s getting so hot out, but electricity and water should stay the same. He should be able to save some money if he starts buying laundry detergent in bulk. One of the documents catches his eye. It’s the ill-advised monthly contract with the produce company.

 _I’ve barely been using the vegetables they deliver;_ he thinks with mild surprise _._ He looks at the list of supplies closely. Nearly half of the last two weeks’ deliveries have been sitting in the fridge’s crisper waiting to be used. Broccoli that he’d planned on using in the quiche was replaced with Woodhull’s spinach. The tomatoes were also replaced by his neighbor’s fruit. Suddenly arises a dilemma he was _never_ expecting to come up. He briefly considers if it would be fine to cancel the entire contract – _No, that’s too risky._ There’s no guarantee Woodhull will keep up the habit of giving him crops; Abraham _did_ say at the beginning that it was only because he had an unusual surplus. Once again, there’s that pesky thought that maybe Woodhull is more reliable than he’s giving him credit for, and he briefly considers that maybe they could even settle on a more long-term agreement, but that of course would give Woodhull the satisfaction of Robert _trusting_ him, which he’s still unwilling to do after so many half-truths and he honestly doubts that the farmer has the _maturity_ necessary for-

“Robert Townsend, it’s been awhile.”

His head snaps up at the familiar British drawl. He’d been so engrossed in the situation on paper in front of him he hadn’t even noticed the entrance of two figures through the front door.

John André, looking _exactly_ the same as the last time Robert saw him in Philadelphia, and behind the Englishman, another familiar figure. Sunglasses and loose curls pulled up instead of hanging around her face can’t disguise that the woman with André is the same one who’d been the first to check in – for her honeymoon. Robert’s eyes pause on her for a moment, but he feels André looking at him.

“Mr. André,” he says finally, trying to exude the warmth expected of an innkeeper, but still too surprised for it to be very effective. André has always been intensely observant. Robert’s certain that he can recognize his confusion. “I haven’t seen you since you left Philadelphia – two years ago?”

“That sounds about right,” John says with a small smile. “I left for New York for a bit. A change of pace, some new business prospects.” Robert feels like he’s being sized up (for what, he doesn’t know), but at the same time, there’s a touch of hesitation in the smile André’s giving him. “I was surprised to hear your name mentioned when talking to Peggy.”

The woman standing a foot or so behind John takes this as a cue of some sort of cue, and she takes her sunglasses off, tucks them into her purse. She is _definitely_ Senator Arnold’s wife.

“Our reservation should be under ‘John Anderson,’” André says suddenly, as if trying to drag the attention away from Peggy. “I would be grateful if you could give Peggy our room key. You and I should catch up a little.”

 _He wants me to facilitate an affair_ , Robert realizes with a slight widening of his eyes. He turns, lifts the key off the hook it rests on, and pauses. Obviously there’s some kind of ethical question in whether he should be helping or not, and he quickly runs through a few factors mentally. The senator seems like a fairly obnoxious, mildly repulsive man. He can’t fault Peggy for that much, at least. And André, in all of their conversations back when he was a regular at Robert’s coffee shop, has always seemed _decent_. He tipped well. If this _does_ become a full blown scandal, it would be fairly easy to claim ignorance of the whole thing. He doesn’t need to take sides.

He hands over the key to Peggy with a thin smile, then turns to André. “Would you like some coffee? I’d love to catch up.”

()

André looks closer to visibly nervous than Robert has ever seen him as he sips his coffee. The Englishman is nothing if not perceptive, and he knows that he doesn’t have the power in this situation.

“I feel like I need to reiterate - I was shocked to hear your name mentioned by my Peggy, Mr. Townsend,” André says carefully. “I didn’t expect our paths to cross again after I moved to Washington.”

“Nor did I.” Robert doesn’t continue, just looks at the man sitting across the table and waits.

“You’ve always seemed very trustworthy to me – I always felt comfortable talking to you at the coffee shop.” That much is true, Robert remembers faintly. Philadelphia is largely a blur of school for him, but certain memories of working do stick out – André was there until late, and occasionally when Robert closed, they were the only two in the shop. “I’m sure you understand why I need someone I can place my full trust into.” The comment is punctuated with a look at Robert, clearly expecting some kind of response. The innkeeper also suspects it’s the closest André will come to acknowledging the true nature of the situation.

“I understand.”

“Peggy and I would be most grateful for your discretion.”

“I understand.”

André reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet.

“That’s not necessary.” Robert’s response is firm, and he’s almost amused by how caught off-guard Andre seems by the gesture as he explains. “I’d prefer to maintain plausible deniability.” This actually brings a hint of a smile to André’s face.

“We appreciate it,” he says. “We’ll be taking breakfast in our room, if that’s al-”

He’s cut off by the sound of a knock at the back door; to Robert it’s a welcome escape from the current situation. Robert pushes his chair back and stands up in one movement, gives a quick nod and a brief “Excuse me,” and walks out of the dining room as fast as he can without seeming overtly rude. Andre can have his political scandal, his affair. _Just keep me out of it_.

It’s Abe at the back door, crate next to him on the steps. Robert quickly scans the offerings, eyes glancing over the tomatoes to bundles of thyme and basil. There’s also only one cabbage this time.

“I wasn’t sure what herbs you’d need, so I just took a guess,” Abe offers with a shrug.

“Thanks,” Robert responds, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Bring them inside.”

Crate safely inside (without any manhandling required this time) Woodhull quickly makes himself at home, pouring himself coffee before Robert even has a chance to offer.

“Five eggs today,” Abraham says after a sip of the coffee. “The coffee’s better this time, what did you change?”

“You’re eating breakfast in the morning again?” He ignores the comment about the coffee. “After your last visit, I just assumed it was purely going to be an afternoon meal.”

“Very funny,” Abraham replies, and it’s his turn to be dry. “Where’s the cream?” Robert silently points to the fridge, as he moves to the stove with a pot of water in hand. Abe continues, sounding a bit like a slighted child. “And since you’re making such a big deal about it, I came late last time because my son wasn’t feeling well.”

It takes Robert every ounce of self-control not to drop the pot on the floor out of pure, unadulterated _shock_. “You have a son?” he asks, voice mostly containing his surprise, but still a little incredulous. He can’t help but turn around and look at Abraham – sizing him up much as he did when he first showed up at the inn’s door; but now with the knowledge that he’s a father.

“Yep. He’s 3. He’s cute, at that stage where he thinks he runs the world,” he says, sounding more sincere than Robert’s ever heard him. And if the description wasn’t so incongruous with the image the innkeeper’s had in his mind of an immature equivocator, he’d almost describe Abe’s expression while talking about his son as _beaming_.

Robert’s not sure how to respond, so he settles for a small “Hmm,” of acknowledgement and puts the eggs on to boil.

There’s a few moments of silence as he goes about cleaning up the kitchen while the water heats up. Abe finally gets up and gets himself the cream. Robert’s not sure whether to be more surprised that the silence is nowhere near as uncomfortable as he expected or at the fact that Abraham has managed to keep his mouth closed for so long.

“I’ve been wondering, what’s all the work on the garden for?” Abraham asks.

“Hosting weddings. Other events.”

“Huh,” Abe says, and Robert feels like he’s on the brink of saying something else, but Woodhull leaves it there, and accepts his eggs with a “thanks” and thankfully, no more questions.

Abraham talks very little in between bites of egg, but each time Robert glances at him – only when he’s circumstantially facing his direction, putting dishes away, wiping down the sink – he seems intensely focused, thinking hard. He doesn’t divulge anything new, and Robert tries to throw out any of his lingering curiosity with the coffee grinds.

()

“Yes, I’ve been sleeping fine.” Phone tucked between his ear and laundry basket against his hip, Robert’s too focused on not falling down the stairs to be _too_ exasperated by his father. He’s distracted, half listening to the chiding as he stabilizes himself using the railing with the hand that’s not gripping the basket.

“Well, I was talking to Sally last week about the issues you were having with the food service, and she had an idea,” his father switches gears just as Robert reaches the landing. “She knows someone who runs a vegetable stand about fifteen minutes from you, a friend from high school.”

“I actually was able to sort that out,” Robert comments, and regrets it almost immediately.

“You did? That’s great to hear, I was worried about it, I knew how much it was weighing on you, Robert.” His father trails off for a second, but returns with the dreaded question. “How?”

He _could_ lie about where the temporary (is a month still considered temporary?) solution to the vegetable problem, but his father’s always been good at telling when he’s not being honest. Logically, there’s no reason he should worry about telling his father about Abraham – it’s not like their situation is _that_ unusual, but he feels a strange urge to keep it to himself. So he takes a page out of Woodhull’s book – half-truths are good enough for now. “There’s a neighbor who has a farm, and he’s offered me some vegetables at a discounted rate,” _for eggs_ , he thinks. He focuses on moving the laundry from the basket to the machine, and hoping his father isn’t in one of his especially nosy moods.

“How did you meet? I hope you’re taking my advice about looking for a nice man,” Samuel says, and Robert can practically _hear_ the wink. _Damn it_.

“Well, he –” he’s floundering, but ‘he showed up at my house in the dead of the night’ is a surefire way to invite more questions. “– Hold on Father, there’s another call.”

He’s not lying. Putting the pillowcase in his hand down, he quickly switches to the other line, and mentally thanks god for his luck in getting out of awkward moments in the past 2 days.

“Hello?”

“May I speak to Rob Townsend?” The voice on the other end is that of a young man, warm but professional.

“You're speaking to him right now,” Robert responds, already walking out of the laundry room to the foyer. _Probably just another reservation_. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Benjamin Tallmadge,” the voice begins. “I’m currently planning my wedding, and I’m interested in the inn as a venue? I heard you host them.”

Robert fumbles around the front desk with one hand looking for a pen. “Yes, we do. Do you have a date in mind?”

“August 25th.”

“Of next year?” He already has the planner he writes the reservations down in out, and he’s already flipped up to May of next year before Tallmadge continues.

“No, this year.”

“This year?” Robert repeats. “That’s three months away.”

“Are you already booked?” The voice over the phone sounds extremely worried. “I know it’s last minute, my work forced us to push it up. I completely understand if you can’t accommodate us.”

Robert feels a stir of pity for the man on the other side of the line. It’s a fairly unfamiliar emotion for him, but something in the man’s tone strikes a chord. Maybe it’s how sincere Benjamin sounds, or how the situation he was briefly given _does_ seem unfairly out of the other man’s control. Or maybe the fact that he’s only talked to his father, John André, and Abraham Woodhull in the past 3 days has given him a new appreciation for _normal_ people.

“No, we can accommodate you,” Robert says quickly, and he can almost hear the sigh of relief coming from the other side of the phone.

“Thank you so much. I’d love to meet sometime this week to discuss details, if you can fit it in.” Robert looks down at the planner, mentally running through his responsibilities for the week. “And I know this is a difficult request, but is there any chance you can come to me? It’s been hard for me to get away from work lately.”

“I’m sure I can,” Robert says without really thinking about it. “Where do you live?”

“D.C.”

He scans the planner again, and Friday catches his eye – André is checking out Thursday, and no one is expected until Saturday morning. “Friday?”

“That would be great. I’ll text you my address.”

They exchange good-byes, and Robert calls his father back. There’s something bugging him about the call that he can’t quite pinpoint, but there’s a more important matter at hand. _Someone_ needs to watch the inn for the day, even if it’s just sitting at the front desk. He’ll swallow his pride for a moment.

“Robert?”

“I have a favor to ask you.”

()

That night, Robert tries to start making a list of everything he’ll need to discuss with Tallmadge about the wedding, but his mind keeps wandering back to the conversation of the day before with Abraham. He gives up trying to avoid thinking about it, and instead tries to think through what’s been weighing on him – maybe if he can sort out his thoughts it will stop bothering him. (It’s worth a shot).

To start, there’s still cognitive dissonance whenever he remembers that Abraham Woodhull is a _father_. He doesn’t doubt for a second that Abe was telling the truth. The look on Abraham’s face when he was talking about his son was by _far_ the most genuine expression Robert’s seen on the farmer’s face. But that almost makes it even more frustrating. He was shocked to learn that he had a son, but _why_? Has Abraham given him much evidence he’d be a bad father? Or evidence that he wouldn’t be a father at all?

 _I know nothing about him_ , Robert realizes. It’s not a surprising revelation. He may not have had grounds on which to be surprised that Abraham was a father, but it’s because he has no grounds on which to base any judgement of Abraham at all. There’s a twinge of guilt with that realization – perhaps he hasn’t been fair? But then again, Abe was the one to burst into his life with an uninvited visit and plenty of lies by omission. Robert has always prided himself on being able to think logically, but he’s suddenly been presented with something that he can’t use logic to figure out. Logic requires _evidence_ of some kind. _If P, then Q_ only works when you know what _P_ is.

He knows that Abraham has a son, that he grows vegetables, lives in the white house down the gravel road. None of these things tell him _why_ Abe’s been doing the things he does. He knows that for some reason Abraham keeps bringing him vegetables in exchange for breakfast, is a smartass, and seems dead-set on wedging his way into Robert’s life.

The thought that maybe he wouldn’t mind that crosses his mind for a moment.

 _And that’s enough thinking for one night_. He forces himself to think of weddings and budgets and anything _except_ Abraham Woodhull until he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/N  
> first of all thank you all so much for the feedback!! it means the world to me and i’m so glad people are enjoying this bc it’s a crazy little idea ive been working on for months. and thank you for the patience waiting for the update! i originally hoped to have a chapter a week, but that’s optimistic  
> not as many notes on this chapter, mostly bc stuff left out was done so for a reason. about andre: in this universe he was in the british military, but is now working on business ventures in the US. he’s not a politician per say but he is a minor celebrity around DC bc he has Connections.  
> also I promise next chapter there will be like… actual romance lmao. its not called slow burn for nothing folks! anyways my tumblr is terumiafuro! feel free to hmu.  
> next time: samuel puts his son in an awkward situation, anna mary and thomas get caught up in a Scene, ben and robert set out on a wedding planning expedition, and abe finally tells the truth.)  
> (update 9/8: if anyone is still reading this, hello! i just wanted to apologize for being so slow with updating and also assure readers that i have not in fact abandoned this fic. if you follow my tumblr you may already be aware of this but in between the last chapter and now i moved 6 hours away from home for my freshman year of college and im still trying to get into the groove of classes, and ive had a nasty writers block as well. feel free to send me drabble requests at terumiafuro dot tumblr dot com and rest assured im still working on it!! thank you all so much for the comments & love❤)


	3. Bags & Baggage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert plans a wedding, hosts a dinner party, and plays the strangest game of checkers imaginable. Abe tells the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as per usual thanks to lea for beta reading! and for still being willing to beta after 5 months!

Friday arrives, and Robert wakes up even earlier than usual. The first few hours of his day are spent scrambling around, trying to get as much done as possible before his father arrives. He trusts his father not to burn the inn to the ground in his absence, but it’s more for his own peace of mind. The more he can get done now, the less he’ll have to worry about when he gets back.

8 o’clock in the morning rolls around, and his father shows up right on time. He presses the ring of keys into his father’s hands, gives him a quick hug, and is off for D.C.

The apartment is in Georgetown, a brick building on a tree-lined street that looks like a picture you’d see on a realtor’s website; the kind of place where all your neighbors have two kids and a steady government job and a golden retriever. It’s also a crowded neighborhood, but through some stroke of luck, Robert finds a parking spot right across the street from the apartment.

Before he’s even out of the car, a young man (presumably Ben) is on the sidewalk across the road, looking both ways before briskly walking over.

“Rob?” the man asks, a little tentative. The innkeeper nods in affirmation, and instantly Benjamin seems more at ease. He holds out a hand, which Robert shakes while taking in the new acquaintance. He’s essentially like what Robert imagined speaking to him over the phone – clean-shaven, polite. He fits in the neighborhood perfectly. Ben _is_ the neighbor who would have two kids and a golden retriever.

“It’s so great to meet you,” Ben says with a smile, gesturing for Robert to follow him back across the street. “We’re so grateful to you for being able to take us on such short notice.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Robert replies as Ben holds the door open for him and leads him upstairs. The apartment is small, just a one-bedroom with an open living room and eating area. But it’s nice, well decorated. Most of the furniture is modern, all grey and white and clean lines, but there’s a few things that stand apart –  the photos on the wall and side tables are all in wildly different frames, as though someone scavenged them from a tag sale. There’s also a pair of mud-caked boots next to the white carpet (Robert nearly cringes thinking about how close to disaster that is) that look decidedly out of place for a young D.C. professional.

Robert is especially distracted when he sees the kitchen table. Or rather, when he doesn’t see it – it’s covered in papers, photos, thick books with glossy pages.

“Sorry about the mess,” Ben comments sheepishly. “I was going to try and clean it up before you got here, but I had to run into work for a bit this morning.”

“Where do you work?” Robert asks conversationally, setting his bag down on the floor next to the table. He restrains himself from peering over the papers. He doesn’t want to risk any infractions, or come off as rude. He’ll admit that he’s bad at small talk, but he’s certainly going to make an attempt. Ben might be desperate for a wedding venue, but it’s not like Robert has much experience with this either.

“I work for the CIA, down in Fairfax,” Ben says, as he shuffles papers into haphazard piles. “I used to work in the city though, and I love this neighborhood. So we just decided not to move when I got the job there.” He waves his hand at a spot that’s been cleared just enough for the varnished wood of the table to poke through. “You can sit down. Can I get you anything to drink?”

Robert sinks down into the chair, shakes his head. “I’m fine, thanks.” Ben retreats to the cabinets, and he takes the moment to indulge his curiosity and glance at the titles of the books Ben had quickly piled up. The spine of a particularly glossy volume reads So _Your Wedding is in a Month_ ; the one stacked on top of it blares in blue text _The Modern Woman’s Wedding Planner_. Although he’s still making an effort not to indulge his curiosity about the papers, he catches a glimpse of what appears to be a mock-up invitation laying near the books.

A glass of water is placed in front of Robert, Ben’s hospitality winning over his statements to the contrary. Still holding his own glass in one hand, Ben manages to clear a small patch across the table from Robert to put his cup down on, and then sits down himself.

“Sorry again about the mess,” Ben says, almost palpably uncomfortable with the disorganization on the table – he’s still shuffling papers into piles to clear it off a bit. But he keeps the conversation up as he works. “So how do you usually work with clients?”

The question carries the implication of a different one that Robert has been dreading. But he quickly decides that a., Ben seems to be the kind to appreciate full disclosure, and b., he’s so desperate for a venue, he doubts that being Robert’s first customer is enough to make him jump ship.

“You’re actually my first client,” he says delicately. “The inn has done them for years, but I just purchased it a few months ago.”

Ben’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but after a moment, the look of surprise and mild confusion is entirely gone, and the look of warm professionalism is back, as well as a strange look of understanding. Strange because Robert’s not certain exactly _what_ Ben’s realized, or if he’s just reading too much into his expressions.

“It’ll be new for both of us then – you’re not married, are you?” The question’s tone is joking, but there’s definitely genuine curiosity behind it.

Robert shakes his head no, smiling a bit (more for Ben’s benefit than his own), and pulls a legal pad out of his bag. He may not have much (any) experience, but he certainly isn’t going to show up unprepared. There’s a list of questions scrawled out on the page, compiled over the last few days in the few free moments he had.

He raises the pad up to Ben. “I have some questions that I think will help me understand what you’re looking for, though.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ben replies with a nod.

“Tell me a little about you and your fiancé.” The question feels stiff, and Robert feels like he’s trying to play a role he wasn’t meant for. Innkeeper, gardener, baker, and now wedding planner – the list just keeps on growing.

Almost instantly Ben’s face lights up, a change in expression that catches Robert by surprise. “His name’s Caleb,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “He’s – he’s my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without him. He has a great sense of humor; he keeps me from going crazy.”

Ben hands over his phone to Robert. There’s a photo of the two of them on the screen – Caleb is the shorter of the two of them, and has a beard that can only be described as “scruffy.” They’re laughing in the photo, taken at some kind of party, their arms draped around each other in a loose embrace. Robert can’t help but wonder who took it. But more importantly, they look utterly and hopelessly in love, and it’s as if nothing else in the scene matters to them except each other. _They look so happy_ , he thinks, passes the phone back.

“How did you meet?”

“Believe it or not, we knew each other as kids. We grew up together, our families were friends. We sort of grew apart during college,” Ben says, a hint of guilt slipping into his voice. But it’s quickly replaced, as he goes on. “We both ended up at the CIA,” he explains with a small laugh. “It’s pretty bizarre, I know. I work in European Intelligence, and he mostly does investigations into black market crimes, smuggling, that kind of thing. I can’t really go into specifics, I’m sure you understand.”

 _Bizarre is right_ , Robert thinks. Both in terms of how they met, and just what he’s learning about Ben in general. Benjamin does not come off as the type to be a foreign intelligence specialist. _But_ , he figures, _it’s not like anything else has been predictable lately_.

“Alright,” Robert continues, segueing into his next question. “How big are you thinking for the guest list?”

Ben shuffles through a few of the papers in front of him, looking for one that seems to elude him. “I’d already started writing that out, actually –” he pulls a paper out, looking hopeful, only to lay it back down on top of a manila folder. “It’s in here somewhere,” he says with a shrug. “We were thinking fairly small, maybe about 80 people? Just our families and some close friends. Oh, and – I should probably mention that some security people might get in touch with you at some point.”

“Why?”

“A few close friends are pretty high up in the government,” he says apologetically. “It’ll just be out of an abundance of precaution.”

“Alright, that’s fine. Just give them my number,” Robert says, makes a quick note of it on his pad, and moves on. “And what are you thinking for the food?”

Robert asks him questions for another half hour or so, taking fairly copious notes in an attempt to look like he knows what he’s doing. Maybe it’s fruitless – after all, Ben _knows_ he’s never planned a wedding before now. But the questions are helping. He at least has a better idea of what Ben and Caleb want, even if he’s not sure exactly how to make it happen, especially given the time frame. But Ben’s trust in him is so earnest that by the end of their meeting, he knows he can’t let him down, even if it means an absurd amount of extra work through the summer.

They exchange quick goodbyes and a promise of a phone call in a few days, and Robert drives out of the city. It’s a pleasant day, and the drive back is nice. He listens to a few innings of the Nationals game before he hits the countryside and the station turns to static, and after that he rolls down the window and listens to the sounds of the road and the farmland and forests he’s driving through. Even with business at the inn slowing a bit, he’s still been working constantly, and the drive up was so filled with worries about the meeting – this is the most time he’s had for reflection and thinking in days.

For some reason, the photo that Ben showed him of him and his fiancé keeps coming back to mind.

Robert's had a few boyfriends before. One in high school, and another as a sophomore in college. Both of them broke up with him. In high school, it was because his personality apparently came off as abrasive; in college, it was because his boyfriend wanted someone who was more “Willing to show affection publicly, you know?” Neither breakup really tore him apart, and after the last one, he simply stopped caring. He had classes and a job to worry about, then business school, and then the inn. Not once has he felt bothered by the fact that he’s not dating – the closest to any kind of concern about it is his annoyance that his father won’t stop asking him about it.

But he can’t stop thinking about that photo, because they just looked so purely, unbelievably _happy_. And that was just a photo, a single moment in time; he’s sure they’ve had boundless other moments like that together. And for the first time in his memory, he’s feeling… maybe not quite jealous, but there’s a _longing_ for something like that. _Have I ever been that happy?_ He puzzles on it for a second as he drives over a bridge.

 _No_ , he thinks, _I haven’t_.

()

When he first pulls into the driveway, nothing seems amiss. The inn hasn’t burnt down in his absence, which is a good sign. His dad’s beat up car is still parked in front of the building, and a white (but mud-splattered) pick-up truck is parked next to it.

Robert’s halfway to the house before he realizes the problem with what he’s seeing. There shouldn’t be a truck there. There are no guests until Sunday. No deliveries were planned for today. He doesn’t even _know_ anyone with a white truck. He starts running through a list of everyone he knows to try and see if maybe he’s just forgetting someone, but... His father’s car is here. Sally usually just borrows the Pontiac when she’s home from school, and she’d sooner walk than drive a pick-up truck. André drives a sports car, and “John Anderson’s” next reservation isn’t for another week.

 _Do any of the neighbors drive a car like that?_ he thinks, pulling up next to the back door.

His eyes widen.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, shoving the gear shift to park. “ _Shit._ ”

 _I’ve never even seen Abe’s car_ , he thinks, desperately trying to convince himself that maybe the assumption he’s jumped to is wrong. Maybe it’s someone else’s car. Maybe someone stopped by without a reservation, or he got the date of delivery mixed up. Maybe. Hopefully.

But he mutters another, more resigned, “Shit,” under his breath as he opens the door and calls inside. “I’m back.”

“Robert!” his father’s voice calls from down the hall. “We’re in the kitchen!”

“Who is ‘we’?” Robert asks as he gets to the doorway. He knows the answer even before he looks in.

“Hey Rob,” Abe says with a smile and a brief wave. “I didn’t know you’d be out today.”

“Abraham and I were just getting to know each other,” his father says, smiling even wider than Abe. “I didn’t know you’d made friends in the neighborhood.”

Robert walks over to the sink, avoiding looking at both of them. “It’s hardly a neighborhood,” he comments, forcedly nonchalant. “It’s so rural, I didn’t even know Woodhull lived anywhere around here until a few weeks ago.”

“How did you meet?”

Robert turns and makes eye contact with Abe as he pours himself a glass of water, glaring across the kitchen. “It’s a pretty funny story, isn’t it, Abraham?” He doesn’t break eye contact, but the scathing look doesn’t seem to be breaking through Abe’s cockiness. The message he is trying to send should be _excruciatingly_ clear – he is _not_ going to be the one to tell his father about how they met. Not in a million years.

“Yeah, it was,” Abe says with another smile. His father seems almost _enthralled_ with the visitor. “I heard that the inn had a new owner – it goes through new owners pretty often,” he adds with a laugh. “So, I wanted to stop by and introduce myself, and then a few weeks later I stopped by with some vegetables.”

“As a housewarming gift,” Robert says drily, eliciting a frown from his father (probably on account of him being ‘rude to a guest’) and a laugh from Abe (on account of his inability to recognize when Robert is laughing _at_ him, or his complete indifference towards it).

“Exactly, and we hit it off, so I’ve stopped by with vegetables a few times since then.” It hardly fits the description of ‘a funny story,’ but his father stopped questioning the logistics or realism of the story the second the words ‘hit it off’ left Abe’s mouth. He glances over at his father, tempted to roll his eyes. Robert has tried to never take for granted how supportive his father is, and he’s sure that if he was straight, his dad would still be trying just as hard to be setting him up with someone. But lord, it is exhausting. _This is_ exactly _why I didn’t want father to meet him_ , he thinks, because he’s absolutely _certain_ his father is already making wedding plans.

“That’s wonderful,” the older Townsend replies, and just from the tone, Robert can tell his prediction is right on the money. “Say, Abraham. Why don’t you come over for dinner on Sunday night?”

“Father,” Robert says, cautiously but firmly. “I have a busy weekend and a lot of guests next week; I’m not sure Sunday is a great time--”

“--don’t be ridiculous! It’s been months since we’ve sat down and had a real dinner together, and I’d love to get to know your _friend_ better.” His father pauses and gives him a knowing smile. “And I saw your schedule, aren’t tomorrow’s guests only staying for one night?”

Robert shoots a glare in Abe’s direction. He discovers Abe’s staring right back at him with a satisfied smile, because they can _both_ tell that there’s no getting out of this situation.

“…Alright--”

“--Sounds great!” His concession overlaps with Abe’s exclamation, and his scowl deepens. “What time?”

“Does seven in the evening work for you, Robert?”

 _Absolutely not; never; I’m already booked for seven on Sunday – I_ wish _I was booked for seven on Sunday; this is the_ worst _possible situation I have ever been in in my life_ , he thinks. “That’s fine,” he says, and sighs. His father and Abe share delighted smiles, and he downs the rest of his glass of water and moves to put it in the sink, where the breakfast dishes are still sitting as well.

“Well, now that that’s settled, I should be on my way,” his father says, and Robert is grateful for his prompt exit, because he’s not sure how much more he can deal with right now.

“I completely forgot,” Abe says, getting up at the same time as the older Townsend. “I have some vegetables for you out in my truck.” He turns back towards Robert’s father. “Let me walk you outside,” he says, and Robert has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes (for what feels like the 20th time that day) at Abe playing at being a gentleman.

Abe comes back in a few minutes later with a crate of vegetables in his arms, and Robert can hear his father’s old car sputtering away before the door shuts behind Abe.

“I brought more rosemary this time, it’s growing better than any of the other herbs,” Abe says conversationally. Robert, elbow-deep in suds, makes a small noise of acknowledgement. “Your dad is great,” he says, as he starts putting the vegetables and herbs away like it’s his own kitchen.

“He is,” Robert says drily. Normally he’d offer some higher praise of his father (he’s fully aware he sounds bitter, and he _does_ truly love him), but he’s completely annoyed with the both of them at the moment.

Abe doesn’t respond immediately, and Robert glances in his direction, only to see Abe looking back with an explicable expression bordering on hurt. “I’m serious,” he says, and he sounds it. “He really cares about you.”

Robert only maintains eye contact for a second before turning back to the dishes, Abe’s expression leaving him feeling irrationally guilty and uncomfortable. “I know that,” he says, softening a little, but he’s still annoyed. Something have must have hit a nerve, and while he doesn’t care (that much) if Abe is upset with him, he _was_ being a little unfair to his father. Out of his peripheral vision he sees Abe continue to look at him for a few moments, then turn back to emptying the crate into the fridge.  They work silently in tandem.

“Well,” Abe says after a few minutes, closing the fridge and picking up the crate. “I’ll see you Sunday, then!” There’s a hint of forced cheer, but he’s out the door before Robert can say goodbye or ascertain the cause of the sudden drop in Abe’s mood.

He _tries_ to be pleased that Woodhull made a speedy exit. He has no clue _why_ Abe took so much offense to his annoyance with his father, but why should he worry about it? Samuel isn’t Woodhull’s father, and Abe certainly ruined his mood enough. But the kitchen feels _far_ too quiet, and there’s a general feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach the rest of the night.

()

Saturday morning finds Robert driving the half hour into town to go to the grocery store, several days before he _should_ need to go to the store. But as unhappy as he is about having to host a dinner, he’s still going to put some effort into the meal. The guests who checked in this morning seem rather low-maintenance and ate an early breakfast, making any excuse he could come up with for not going to the store fairly flimsy.

He’d flipped through his cookbooks last night to try and find something suitable and settled on a simple roast chicken dish. It caught his eye because it looked fairly simple, but also because it called for a fair amount of fresh rosemary, which he suddenly found himself with a surplus of.

The first time his phone rings he’s in the bakery section of the store, and he nearly drops the loaf of olive bread he’s holding trying to get his phone out in time.

“Hello?” He doesn’t have the caller in his contacts, and he isn’t expecting any calls. He’s a puzzled as he answers.

“Rob, hey!” Robert tosses the bread into the cart with a little more force than necessary when Abe answers, and he stalks towards the meat section with a frown.

“How did you get my number?”

“Your dad gave it to me yesterday,” Abe says, and Robert can practically _hear_ the smug smile in his voice. “So anyways, I had a question about tomorrow night.”

Robert picks up a package of chicken thighs and checks the price. “What?” he replies curtly, and a little absentmindedly – he’s trying to figure out how many he’ll need for the three of them tomorrow. _Will one package be enough?_ A label catches his eye – it’s buy one, get one half off, but then what would he do with the extra chicken?

“Well, I was just wondering – I know it’s a lot to ask, but is there any chance my housemates could also come by for dinner?” Abe asks. “It would just be the two of them and Thomas.”

“Who’s Thomas?”

“My son.”

“Oh,” Robert says, and thinks for a second, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of this situation. On the downside, it’ll be cooking and setting up the dining room for more people – but he does this for a _living_ , so that’s not the end of the world. On the upside, his father will find it far trickier to play matchmaker with the two of them if there’s other people there. “Sure, that’s fine.” He picks up another package of chicken thighs and throws them in the cart before moving on to the cheese and dairy section.

“Really?” Abe sounds surprised, like he didn’t expect it to be quite so simple.

“Yes, really,” Townsend replies, picking up a package of goat cheese to look at the expiration date.

“Thanks,” Abe says, and again Robert thinks he can nearly hear the smile in Woodhull’s voice, though this time it’s far less smug. “I know Mary and Anna will appreciate it, I’m sure you’ll like them.”

 _Mary and Anna?_ Robert can’t remember either of those names being mentioned before, but before he can open his mouth to ask a question, Abe’s saying goodbye and thanks and hanging up. Robert is left staring at his phone for a second, but he shrugs it off and pushes the cart on. The sooner he gets the shopping done, the sooner he can get home and get the laundry done so he has less to worry about tomorrow.

The _second_ time his phone rings, Robert fully expects it to be Woodhull again. He rarely gets phone calls, let alone two in quick succession like this. However, this time when he pulls his phone out, the name _does_ show up on the screen – it’s his father.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hello Robert, I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” his father says, cheery as always.

“No, I’m just at the store,” Robert says, pulling out a plastic bag for the shallots – recipe calls for two, but he’s thinking he’ll get three and use the extra one for omelets this week. “Getting ingredients for tomorrow night.”

“That’s wonderful,” his father says, then pauses a moment. “I was actually calling to talk to you about that,” he says, tone distinctly a bit less cheery than before. “I’m not so sure I’ll be able to make it. My hip has been acting up today, and I’m a little worried about putting too much strain on it.”

Robert picks up one of the small onions to look at it closer, frowning. “Okay,” he says. It’s not all _that_ surprising to hear – he realizes this was definitely part of his father’s plan the whole time, and in retrospect, it’s not all that surprising. “Well, take care of yourself. Rest up.”

“Have a good time tomorrow night,” his father says, and Robert can hear a hint of guilt in his voice. “I love you, I’ll call you on Monday.”

“Love you too,” Robert says, and hangs up. He’s annoyed, if only because the dinner was his father’s idea in the first place. But he’s not going to call Woodhull back and tell him dinner is cancelled. That would just be unfairly rude – if not to Abe, then to his housemates. He aggressively ties off the bag of shallots, and tosses it in the cart.

The _third_ time his phone rings, he’s still expecting it to be Woodhull for some reason, mostly because he can’t imagine who else it would be, but he definitely _can_ imagine Woodhull calling him twice within 15 minutes.

“Hello?” He’s carrying the groceries to his car, the phone held precariously between his ear and shoulder as he opens the trunk.

“Robert, hey!” Ben greets him happily. “Are you in the middle of something?”

Robert hesitates before answering. “Sort of, but I have a few minutes free. What can I help you with?” He shuts the trunk, groceries safely inside, and walks around to the driver’s seat.

“It won’t take long,” Ben says. “I just wanted to let you know that I finished up the guest list – well, I found it yesterday and made the last few additions. So, I emailed it to you, and I was going to start getting the invitations out this week and just wanted to make sure the time we discussed still works out.”

The innkeeper runs through the notes he took yesterday in his head, trying to remember what time they’d decided on, but Ben continues before he has to guess and risk being horrifically off.

“I think we said 4:00?”

“That still sounds good to me. And I’ll take a look at the guest list later,” he says, puts the key in the ignition. Robert prides himself on being a polite person, especially with clients and guests, but there’s a trunkful of groceries that need to be refrigerated, and a half-hour drive back to the inn; nothing about this conversation couldn’t be postponed.

“No problem,” Ben says, and pauses. “It would be good if you could try to take a look at it this weekend though, the security people I mentioned before probably want to get in touch with you soon.”

“Sure.”

“Alright, just wanted to touch base with you about that. I’ll talk to you later this week!”

“Sounds good, bye,” Robert says, and only waits a moment for Ben’s goodbye before hanging up and heading out of the parking lot. _It’s strange that he keeps mentioning security_ , he thinks. _Surely_ it can’t be that intensive – Ben might work at the CIA and does probably know some notables, but he’s still very young and can’t be _that_ high-up, can he? Robert mulls it over for a moment, shrugs, and pushes it to the back of his mind.

()

Sunday is the usual flurry of activity, but exacerbated – he has to make sure all the cleaning and chores are done earlier than usual, since he has an unusually large meal to be making.

When the chicken is in the oven, he turns his attention to the dining room. The room is set up for small breakfasts – tables of two, and three and no more. It just won’t _do_ for a dinner party, so he rolls up his sleeves and gets to work pushing two of the tables together. There’s a few larger tablecloths tucked away in the linen closet that he hasn’t had a chance to use yet (he decides to go with a green one instead of the white when he remembers there’s a literal _child_ coming over).

Robert sets out the china and the filigreed silver, folds the napkins that match the tablecloth, puts out the crystal glasses and pitcher for water. He’s still unhappy about the current situation – he could have been using tonight to relax, or to work on some of the logistics for Ben’s wedding like the guest list (the more realistic option). But he’s an innkeeper, and if there’s one life skill he’s going to retain from this job, it’s how to be a good host.

 Much to the innkeeper’s surprise, there’s a knock on the door right on time.

Abe stands at the front of the small group congregated on the front porch of the inn, a toddler on his hip with curly blond hair and a smile that Robert can only describe as _cherubic_. _That’s Abraham’s son?_ He thinks, but his attention is quickly directed towards the two other guests. One of the women is shorter than the other, a petite blonde. The taller woman steps forward, dark curls falling around her face as she extends her arm past Abraham to Robert.

“Hi, you must be Rob,” she says with a smile, and Robert shakes her hand. She exudes a warm sort of confidence. “I’m Anna.”

“Nice to meet you,” he responds automatically, a little stiff and painfully aware of it. _These aren’t guests_ , he reminds himself, _your paycheck isn’t dependent on your etiquette right now_. In truth, he can’t remember the last time he just… had a meal with friends, or even people just his own age (which both of the women seem to be).

Robert forces himself to relax a bit, and he puts on what he hopes is a warm smile while bending down. “And your name is Thomas, right?” He’s also painfully out of practice with children, he realizes. Thomas answers with a quick nod (after looking to his dad for confirmation), before shyly burying his head into his dad’s shoulder.

“He’s just a little shy – right, Sprout?” Abe says, ruffling Thomas’ hair fondly. “Thanks for having us,” he says to Robert, who’s admittedly still having a bit of cognitive dissonance, seeing Abraham with his _son_ – and he sees the clear resemblance between the two, even just at first glance. (He also notices that Abe isn’t wearing that ridiculous hat, for the first time since they met.)

“Well – come inside,” Robert says, and steps aside for the guests, including the shorter woman who’d been standing behind Anna.

 “I’m Mary, by the way,” she says, smiling at him as she walks in. “I’m not sure if Abe bothered telling you the names of his guests beforehand, or if that’s expecting too much from him,” she says with a casual lightness that implies it’s far from the first time she’s teased Abraham. Robert _immediately_ decides he likes her.

Once all the guests are seated and the chicken ( _perfectly_ cooked, Robert notes with a touch of pride) is on the table, the light conversation the three visitors had been having while Robert was in the kitchen fades out. The only noises come from Abe and Thomas – who is fervently rejecting Abe’s attempts to get him to eat.

Anna saves him the trouble of trying to start the small talk, and turns to him in between bites of food. “It’s so great to finally meet you,” she says – not quite _sarcastic_ , but there’s a hint of amusement present that Robert can’t get a read on. “It feels like you’re all Abe talks about since he met you.”

For a moment, Robert is silent – _What? What does that mean?_ “I have no idea why,” he replies after a beat, glancing at Abe. “Unless this neighborhood is so quiet that whoever’s newest becomes the main topic of conversation until someone new moves in,” he says, trying to throw out _some_ kind of joke.

It doesn’t seem to get a laugh out of Anna, but Mary cuts in with that same teasing tone the innkeeper heard her use earlier. “I’m sure you’re selling yourself short. I can’t remember the last time Abe thought someone was interesting enough to stop talking about himself for a while.” Abe shoots a look at Mary, but her and Anna simply look at each other and laugh.

“Do either of you work on the farm as well?” Townsend asks, a clumsy question he regrets instantly, but he really just wants the attention off of himself.

Mary laughs a bit at that. “No, we just live there. I mostly work from home, doing social media outreach for a few non-profits, mostly veterans groups. Sometimes Abe makes me pick cabbage instead of paying rent.” The innkeeper can’t tell if she’s joking.

“And I work for the CIA,” Anna says, and Robert’s eyes widen fractionally in genuine surprise.

“What a coincidence,” he says. “I just met with some clients who are hosting a wedding here, and they work there too.”

“Huh,” Anna says, in a tone that is distinctly _not_ perplexed, and looks at Abe (who’s still devoting all of his attention to Thomas and none to the conversation). “That _is_ a weird coincidence.” Robert notices both of these things, and sifts through his memories to try to understand – but can’t come up with anything that would explain it; he decides that for now he’ll just brush it off as not knowing Anna well enough to read her. He doesn’t dislike Anna and Mary, far from it – they’re polite and funny and both seem to understand the struggle that is dealing with Abraham Woodhull, but they also know something Robert doesn’t. It’s starting to get to him a bit.

The rest of dinner goes – it goes fine, shockingly enough, blowing past Robert’s expectations into something _enjoyable_. Abe’s been quieter than normal, spending most of his energy trying to get Thomas to eat with the occasional help from Mary. When he does talk, it seems… more _natural_ than Robert’s used to. Abe’s relaxed around the women, and although he does get a little melodramatic when they poke fun at him, he seems used to taking it from them (which makes Robert like the two of them even more).

And then a phone rings. Reflexively Robert reaches to his pocket, but he realizes his own phone is in the kitchen at the same time he recognizes the ringtone isn’t his own. Anna’s pulled her bag into her lap to check, but looks around once she comes up empty as well. Mary is looking at Abe, who’s looking at his phone, a serious expression on his face.

“You should answer it,” she mutters, just loud enough that the innkeeper can catch it from across the table, and she looks worried. Robert watches her stroke Thomas’ hair, but it seems like an action done more to calm herself than for any benefit of the toddler.

Abe pauses before responding. “Fine,” he says, voice suddenly sounding more strained. “Watch Thomas,” he says to Mary, and then nods to the kitchen as he turns to Robert. “Can I go take this in there?” he asks, and Robert nods.

There’s an uncomfortable quiet that falls over the room as Abe leaves to go take the call. Mary turns to Thomas to keep him distracted, and her quiet talking and Thomas’ babbling replies are the only noise in the room. Anna doesn’t try to start up the small talk like she did before, but instead takes a sip of her water and frowns. _Both of them definitely know the caller_ , he puts together, but Abe’s voice from the other room distracts him before he can do anything with that information.

“Absolutely _not_ ,” Abe says, voice muffled through the wall but raised enough that it’s still audible. “You don’t get to ignore me for three months then claim you have some right to see my son!”

The dining room falls dead silent after that. Mary pauses in distracting Thomas and looks towards the kitchen, concerned. Anna taps her fingers on the table – either impatiently or nervously, Robert can’t tell. And the host is at a loss for what to do.

“Then maybe,” Abe continues in the kitchen, voice rising even more. “you should have answered when I called, because I don’t know why I’d trust you with my son if you don’t even consider me _family_ anymore!”

Mary, in particular, looks especially uncomfortable now, and then Thomas seems to pick up on the mood and his lip starts trembling. Anna notices this right before he opens his mouth to start crying, and stands up quickly.

“Mary, it’s late, Thomas is tired,” she says, and it’s not a _lie_ , but Robert can also tell that it’s a convenient escape from the awkward scene Abe’s left them in. He doesn’t fault them for wanting to bolt at all. Anna turns toward the innkeeper, an apologetic (and forced) smile. “I’m sorry for running off like this, but Thomas really should be getting to bed soon. Thanks so much for having us.”

Mary gathers the crying toddler up in her arms, and stands up as well. “It was a great dinner,” she says, but she’s distracted, both by Thomas and by the voice still coming from the kitchen. “Thanks.”

“Tell Abe we took the car back,” Anna says, and with a harried wave, the two of them walk through the foyer and out the front.

Robert isn’t sure what to do at first – check on Abe? – but he picks up a dirty dish as habit kicks in, and he turns to the kitchen. The door flies open, and Abraham is standing there, more upset than Robert expected or was prepared for. His face is red, and his knuckles are white they’re wrapped so tight around his phone.

“Did they leave?” he asks.

“Yes,” Robert responds, standing by the table, holding a piece of china, and feeling horrifically out of his depth. “Anna took the car.”

“That’s _great!_ ” Abe responds, his vitriolic sarcasm leaving Robert a little speechless. “Just _great_!” he says, and walks out the French doors onto the patio without saying another word; leaving Robert alone with a dirty dish and no idea what to do.

()

The awkward heaviness left after the party hangs over Robert as he finishes clearing the table and starts cleaning the dishes. Abe still hasn’t come back inside, but every few minutes Robert glances out the French doors in the dining room to see that he hasn’t moved from where he’s sitting on the porch. He’s changed position a few times (head in hands, leaning against the railing) and for a moment it looked like he was about to throw his phone, but otherwise he’s remained inert. The whole situation is discomforting, and as it so often seems to happen with Woodhull, the innkeeper doesn’t even know where to _start_. So he turns to his usual course of action – he avoids the situation for as long as possible.  He lets Abe stew outside until all the porcelain and silverware is clean and dry and put away and there’s nothing left to distract him.

The air is damp and heavy when he steps onto the patio, and the low sun stretches his shadow back into the dining room.

“Do you want to come inside?”

Abraham shrugs, and doesn’t turn around to look at Robert. His hand tightens around the phone and although he can’t see Abe’s face, Robert gets the feeling he’s thinking hard. After what was probably no more than 10 seconds, but feels like an eternity, his grip around the phone loosens, and his other arm reaches up to grab the railing. “Alright, fine.”

 _You don’t need to act like it’s an ordeal,_ Robert thinks, but doesn’t say anything. He’s known Abraham for two months, and while he’s certainly done some (many) things to earn Robert’s scorn, he’s not a bad person, and Robert genuinely believes that. And he feels a strange sense of responsibility for Abe right now – not that any of the situation is his fault, but it did happen at _his_ inn. And dare he think it – somewhere along the line, he’s started to think of Abraham as _some_ kind of friend (not necessarily a _good_ friend mind you, but a friend nonetheless), not just a stranger bringing him cabbages and overly familiar chatter. As Abe slumps into a chair and Robert goes to get them water, he tries to muster up some sort of indignation that Abraham’s succeeded in working his way into his life, but his heart’s not in it.

“Do you have anything stronger?” Abe asks as Robert places a glass of ice water, retrieved from the kitchen, in front of him.

“I don’t drink.”

“Huh,” Abe says, absentmindedly brushing condensation off of the glass with his thumb. Robert pulls a chair over to the table from where it had been for the dinner party.

“I’m Quaker,” he explains, looking around the room instead of sitting down. Still dust-covered in the corner (he never got around to cleaning it) is the antique checkers set. “Do you play?” he asks, tilting his head towards it.

“A little.”

“That’s what good players say to throw their opponent off guard,” Robert replies, already carrying the box over. He places it between the two of them, and sitting down, quickly sets up the pieces.

“Do you play?” Abe asks, but smiles faintly and continues before Robert gets a chance to reply. “Let me guess – a little.” The innkeeper concedes a small, private smile at that, and Abe seems to snap back into focus little when he sees it. He glances down and makes the first move, pushing a white piece forward.

“Your housemates seem nice,” Robert comments as he moves one of his black pieces forward, an innocuous observation he drags into a question. “How did you meet them?” Quite frankly, he’d be a bigger liar than Woodhull if he pretended that he didn’t have any ulterior motives for inviting him back inside. But he can’t _help_ Abraham if he doesn’t know anything about him. And he’s tired of the games. If he’s going to be Woodhull’s _friend_ (still a foreign concept to consider), he deserves better than the bullshit.

“I grew up with Anna. Mary’s a friend of my brother’s.”

“You have a brother?” Abraham’s hand remains steady as he moves another piece forward, but Robert spies the same look in Abe’s eyes that he got when the innkeeper had pressed him about law school. He looks like an animal that thinks it’s trapped in a corner, defensive and closed up.

“Yeah,” Abe answers, quickly following the response up with a sip of water, as if to have an excuse not to elaborate. Silence falls for a moment, dampening the room and drowning out any progress Robert thought he may have been making in the conversation.

He takes a deep breath.

“What I still don’t understand about you is why you go to such lengths to talk to me, and then avoid being honest at all costs.” Abe manages a pretty good poker face, and he meets Robert’s gaze straight on. “Maybe it works on other people.”

“But you’re immune to my charms?” Abe asks, half joking, half serious – as a joke it feels awkward and stiff and out of place, and the smile Abe tries to crack fades almost instantly.

“No, I can see through your bullshit,” Robert says flatly, and takes two of Abe’s pieces in one move.

Abe stares at the board dumbly for a second, then at Robert. “I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he says after a pause, with what seems like genuine wonder (bewilderment? Robert can’t tell). The innkeeper is caught off guard – he almost wishes that Abe was teasing or joking, but he’s deadly serious.

“Are you trying to flatter me to change the subject?”

“No,” Abe says, and moves a piece forward. It’s in an easy spot for Robert to take it, but he quickly realizes that it’s a trap – if he takes that piece Woodhull can take two of his. He pushes another piece forward; it doesn’t take any of Abe’s pieces, but it’s also out of danger of being taken itself.

He thinks for a second about the situation while Woodhull mulls over his next move. Abe _wants_ his help. Abe _wants_ to be close to him in some way, but it almost feels like he doesn’t know _how_ to open up, like it’s something he never quite learned how to do. _That’s an idea_ , he thinks, eyes flickering between the board and the other man’s face. It would certainly explain a lot – like how every time Abe’s revealed something that could be considered personal it’s been by mistake, not a conscious decision. And how although he’s gotten _close_ to learning about him, Abe always seems to back out the second he gets too close. _So how do I get the truth out of him_? Robert thinks, frowning at the board.

“Okay,” he says after Abe’s made his next move, taking a deep breath that exhales into a sigh. “How about this – you can ask me any question, _anything,_ and I’ll give you an answer. But then I get to do the same.” It’s a little condescending, but it’s like a game, and he knows Abe won’t be able to resist playing it.

“Okay,” Woodhull says after a moment, thinking. “Do I get to start?”

Robert reaches across the table and takes Abe’s piece, landing on the other end of the board. “Yes. King me.”

Abe dutifully places another piece on top of Robert’s, then sits back, thinking. “Okay. Why did you buy the inn?”

“My father has lived down here for a while,” Robert starts, staring at the board. He isn’t sure what move to make, or if they’re even going to continue playing now that they’re actually talking. “I had just graduated from business school, and I had a job lined up with a new coffee chain whose corporate was based in New York. My father fell and broke his hip.” He pauses in talking to go ahead and move a piece. He’s not sure how much he wants to share, how much he wants to bare himself to Abraham – but if he expects the same from Abe, it’s only fair that he doesn’t withhold anything. “I needed to be near to him. Sally – my sister – lives close, but she’s in school right now and couldn’t help him all that much. So I decided to turn down the job. In a strange twist, the man I was going to work for happened to own this property, and when I told him I wasn’t going to be able to take the job because I needed to be closer to my father, he offered to sell it to me. So, I took out a loan and learned how to run an inn.”

Abe’s looking at him intently, impressed. “Just like that?” he asks, incredulous.

“Just like that.” Abe opens his mouth, but Robert pushes on before he has a chance to add anything. “My turn. Why did you get mad at me the other day after my father left?”

Instantly a change comes over Abe, and Robert nearly winces, worried he’s pushed it too far too early on. Abe certainly hadn’t been in a spectacular mood, but over the game Robert had seen the tension release from his shoulders, bit by bit

“Do you realize how lucky you are to have your dad?” Abe asks, a hint of bitterness slipping in. “When I met him the other day, he told me about how glad and relieved he was that you were making friends. And he told me to watch out for you. Because he worries that you overwork yourself.”

Robert’s chest tightens in fondness, and guilt creeps over him. He knows he’s lucky to have his father, he _knows_ , but -

“My dad,” Abe continues, interrupting Robert’s train of thought. He says ‘dad’ like it’s foreign, uncomfortable in his mouth. “Lives 15 minutes away, and I’ve talked to him _once_ in the past month before tonight. He ignores all of my calls. He only called me to find out when he could see Thomas.”

Robert opens his mouth, then closes it. What is he supposed to say? _I’m sorry?_ That kind of platitude is probably the last thing Abe wants to hear.

“My turn. Why do you act like you don’t like me?” Abe asks, not giving Robert a chance to say anything consoling and going right for the jugular. He aggressively takes one of Robert’s pieces as he asks the question, placing his own back down on the board with such force that the other pieces jump a bit.

“That’s a pretty presumptuous question,” Townsend says, raising an eyebrow, then directing his attention to the board as he tries to come up with an answer for the question. It’s harder to parse than he expects. _Because you’re irritating and presume we’re friends when we’re not_ , he thinks first, and while that might have been true at one point, he begrudgingly concedes that point. And if he’s going to be entirely honest – both to himself and to Abe – he doesn’t _entirely_ loathe the farmer’s company, and really hasn’t since the beginning. Woodhull is _entertaining_ , if a bit infuriating; he’s helpful in a smug sort of way, and he’s one of the few people who not only seems to tolerate Robert’s dry humor, but seems to actively _enjoy_ it and his presence. _Because you insist on trying to shove your way into my life_ , he thinks next, but pauses again before he can open his mouth. That’s not really fair either, because he’s never exactly told Abraham to go away. All he’s really done, Robert realizes with a start, is treat Abe the way he treats most new acquaintances – the difference is just that Abe’s stayed around, and the rest of them gave up.

“I don’t hate you,” he says, a bit begrudgingly, after a moment of thought. Robert expected that admission to feel like he’d lost the game they’ve been playing for two months, like Abe’s “won.” But he doesn’t, he just feels incredibly _exposed_. _I thought the goal of this was to get Abe to open up_ , he thinks to himself, _not me_. Then pushes on. “I just –” he pauses again, struggling to find the right words, although he maintains his composure. “I tend to come off as abrasive to most people. I keep to myself.” He shrugs with a frown, as if to get the weight of that statement off his shoulders, to brush away the fact that that’s more than he’s opened up to anyone in god-knows-how-long.

Abraham looks at him, and for the first time since his father called, the corners of his lips turn up a bit into a full smile. It’s genuine and real, and Robert isn’t sure what that means. “Okay,” he says, accepting Robert’s answer as sufficient. “Your turn.”

“Why have you been visiting me?”

“That’s pretty direct,” Abe says, leaning back in his chair.

“And you weren’t?”

Abe smiles, shrugs, and Robert would be annoyed if he wasn’t mostly just _relieved_ that the farmer seemed to be feeling better.

“The first time was genuinely because I saw someone new moved in and was curious.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“It wasn’t the _middle_ of the night, it was like eleven,” Abe says defensively. “I’m impulsive sometimes,” he adds, and Robert can’t argue with that.

“Alright, and the other times?”

Abe quiets, like he’s thinking through his options, before answering slowly, clearly once again struggling. “It’s mostly because – I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met,” Abe says, and something clicks in Robert’s mind. His heart stops, then promptly drops to his stomach as he tries to get a grip on the situation.

 _This can’t be real_ , he thinks. Abraham Woodhull, seemingly unaware of the earth metaphorically dropping out from below Robert’s feet, haltingly continues on.

“And I guess I like – _christ_ , how do I say this without sounding like I’m in middle school or something?” Robert’s staring at Abe now, wide-eyed, clutching the tablecloth a bit, and though he’s aware he probably looks _ridiculous_ , he’s too stunned to really respond. “I’m really, _really_ , into you, Rob,” Abraham says finally, exhaling the words quickly and staring back at Robert, looking almost as surprised that he got the words out as the innkeeper looks upon hearing them.

“Oh my god,” is all Robert can get out. _Is this real? Is this happening? Is this a joke? This has to be a joke_.

“You’re smart as _hell_ ,” Abe continues, like getting the first words out opened a dam and now he can’t stop. “And you’re hilarious, and I feel like you _get_ me – god, that sounds obnoxious as fuck, doesn’t it?”

“At least you admit it,” Rob responds without really thinking about it, still too stunned to really absorb what Abraham is saying.

It all makes so much _sense_. The visits, the _vegetables_ – Robert doubts there ever was a surplus of them in the first place as much as it was just an excuse to visit him. Why Anna had said he’s all Abe had been talking about. And… he isn’t sure how to feel about it. _Flattered?_ That someone would go to such lengths to see him? It had taken him what, 3 months, before he could finally admit that he considered Abraham Woodhull to be a _friend_ , albeit an exhausting one, and now _this_?

His head is starting to hurt and it’s a little difficult to breathe because there’s just so many thoughts and emotions and questions running through his head –

– And then he just starts _laughing_. It’s not a malicious laugh, and Abe doesn’t seem instantly insulted by it, just a little confused.

“What?”

“You spent,” Robert says while still laughing, pausing to breathe in between words. “ _Three months_ , bringing me _vegetables_ , asking for breakfast, and arguing with me over my flower garden,” he takes another pause to breathe. “to _flirt_ with me?”

Abe stares back at him. “I… guess?”

“Instead of just asking me on a date like a normal human being?”

The shocked look on Abe’s face melts away into a sheepish expression – maybe a bit embarrassed? But then he smiles, and starts laughing too. “Will you go out with me?”

Robert reaches up to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye – _When was the last time I laughed this hard?_ he thinks, and can’t remember. “Abraham Woodhull, you are the most infuriating person I have ever met.” Abe doesn’t respond, just laughs again. “I’m laughing _at_ you, you know.”

Abe shrugs. “It’s still better than a no,” he says, and Robert feels a wave of fondness rush through him that he’s not quite sure how to parse. _Abraham Woodhull_ , he thinks, looking across the checkerboard. _Infuriating, ridiculous, overdramatic Abraham Woodhull, who I suppose I care about and don’t entirely hate_.

“Okay, yes,” Robert says, because if the rest of the world has already turned upside down then he has nothing to lose. “I’ll go out with you.”

Abe stands up suddenly, places his hands on the checkerboard, knocking the pieces still in play out of position. And because tonight wasn’t weird and surreal enough, he leans over, his face close to Robert’s, and the innkeeper stops breathing for a moment. But Abraham pauses, and stands back up.

“Shit,” Abe says, and fully straightens up. “Sorry,” he says, and looks distinctly uncomfortable. “Like I said, I’m impulsive sometimes,” he adds with a bit of forced lightness.

Robert stares at him from his chair for a moment, expressionless. “Great job ruining the mood,” he says flatly. Without really thinking he stands up as well, facing Abe across the table.

 _Fuck it_.

Robert grabs Abraham by the collar and pulls him forward, till he’s leaning across the chessboard. He kisses Abraham Woodhull, short and quick, and it’s the _strangest_ moment of his entire life. The second Abe pulls back his fingers let go of the fabric of the farmer’s shirt. Abraham stands up straight, stares at him wide-eyed, then smiles.

“I’ll see you around, Robert.” 

And with that, Abe bolts out the back door, leaving Robert alone with a scattered game of checkers and a distinctly unfamiliar – but not at all unpleasant –  feeling rushing through his veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/N  
> holy… shit… it’s finally here folks… i know most of you probably assumed this was DEAD but i have literally thought about this fic every day since i last updated. there have been a LOT of roadblocks/extenuating circumstances, plus this chapter is double the length of the last two but it’s HERE, holy shit.  
> not a lot of notes for this chapter besides me just being… in AWE it’s finally done. next two chapters are almost certainly not going to be as long but i planned for this whole thing to originally be 15k and now its looking more like 30k so anything can happen folks  
> next chapter: robert tries to adjust to emotions, ben’s wedding planning quest continues, the inn gets some unexpected visitors, the political intrigue thickens. catastrophe strikes when old habits die hard.)


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